University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


W/^M 


SNOW-BOUND 

dA  Winter  Ictyl 

ffy  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

With  Twerity  Full- Pay  e  Illustrations 

Drawings   by 

Howard  Pyle,  JohnJ.Ennekinq 
Edmund  H .  Garrett 

Decorations    fy/ 

Adrian  JL  lorio 


Boston  <Str>   New  Yorlc 

HOUGHTON  ,  MIFF  LIN   &-9  COMPANY 
iverside  Press ,  Camlvidye 
1906 


COPYRIGHT   1891   AND   1906  BY   HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   &    CO. 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


ihe  Mem 


The  Household  it  Describes 

Poem  is  D^clicatecL 


The  Author 


392282 


Prefatory  Note 


THE  inmates  of  the  family  at  the  Whittier 
homestead  who  are  referred  to  in  the 
poem  were  my  father,  mother,  my  brother  and 
two  sisters,  and  my  uncle  and  aunt,  both  un 
married.  In  addition,  there  was  the  district 
school-master  who  boarded  with  us.  The  "not 
unfeared,  half- welcome  guest"  was  Harriet 
Livermore,  daughter  of  Judge  Livermore,  of 
New  Hampshire,  a  young  woman  of  fine  natural 
ability,  enthusiastic,  eccentric,  with  slight  control 
over  her  violent  temper,  which  sometimes  made 
her  religious  profession  doubtful.  She  was 
equally  ready  to  exhort  in  school-house  prayer- 
meetings  and  dance  in  a  Washington  ball-room, 
while  her  father  was  a  member  of  Congress. 
She  early  embraced  the  doctrine  of  the  Second 
Advent,  and  felt  it  her  duty  to  proclaim  the 


Lord's  speedy  coming.  With  this  message  she 
crossed  the  Atlantic  and  spent  the  greater  part 
of  a  long  life  in  travelling  over  Europe  and  Asia. 
She  lived  some  time  with  Lady  Hester  Stanhope, 
a  woman  as  fantastic  and  mentally  strained  as 
herself,  on  the  slope  of  Mt.  Lebanon,  but  finally 
quarrelled  with  her  in  regard  to  two  white  horses 
with  red  marks  on  their  backs  which  suggested 
the  idea  of  saddles,  on  which  her  titled  hostess 
expected  to  ride  into  Jerusalem  with  the  Lord. 
A  friend  of  mine  found  her,  when  quite  an  old 
woman,  wandering  in  Syria  with  a  tribe  of  Arabs, 
who,  with  the  Oriental  notion  that  madness  is 
inspiration,  accepted  her  as  their  prophetess  and 
leader.  At  the  time  referred  to  in  Snow-Bound 
she  was  boarding  at  the  Rocks  Village  about  two 
miles  from  us. 

In  my  boyhood,  in  our  lonely  farm-house, 


we  had  scanty  sources  of  information ;  few  books 
and  only  a  small  weekly  newspaper.  Our  only 
annual  was  the  Almanac.  Under  such  circum 
stances  story-telling  was  a  necessary  resource  in 
the  long  winter  evenings.  My  father  when  a 
young  man  had  traversed  the  wilderness  to  Can 
ada,  and  could  tell  us  of  his  adventures  with 
Indians  and  wild  beasts,  and  of  his  sojourn  in 
the  French  villages.  My  uncle  was  ready  with 
his  record  of  hunting  and  fishing  and,  it  must 
be  confessed,  with  stories,  which  he  at  least  half 
believed,  of  witchcraft  and  apparitions.  My 
mother,  who  was  born  in  the  Indian-haunted 
region  of  Somersworth,  New  Hampshire,  be 
tween  Dover  and  Portsmouth,  told  us  of  the 
inroads  of  the  savages,  and  the  narrow  escape 
of  her  ancestors.  She  described  strange  people 
who  lived  on  the  Piscataqua  and  Cocheco,  among 


whom  was  Bantam  the  sorcerer.  I  have  in  my 
possession  the  wizard's  "conjuring  book/'  which 
he  solemnly  opened  when  consulted.  It  is  a  copy 
of  Cornelius  Agrippa's  Magic  printed  in  1651, 
dedicated  to  Dr.  Robert  Child,  who,  like  Michael 
Scott,  had  learned 

' '  the  art  of  glammorie 
In  Padua  beyond  the  sea," 

and  who  is  famous  in  the  annals  of  Massachu 
setts,  where  he  was  at  one  time  a  resident,  as  the 
man  who  dared  petition  the  General  Court  first 
for  liberty  of  conscience.  The  full  title  of  the 
book  is  Three  Books  of  Occult  Philosophy,  by 
Henry  Cornelius  Agrippa,  Knight,  Doctor  of  both 
Laws,  Counsellor  to  Ccesar's  Sacred  Majesty  and 
Judge  of  the  Prerogative  Court. 

J.  G.  W. 


&£ist  gf Illustrations 


Winter  Sunset,  Whittier  House      .     .    FRONTISPIECE 

From  a  painting  by  John  J.  Enneking 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown       .      .      .      .     21 

From  a  drawing  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett 

The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out       .      .      .25 

From  a  drawing  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 29 

From  a  draining  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett 

We  sat  the  clean- winged  hearth  about       .      .      .33 

From  a  drawing  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett 

We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees    ....     37 

From  a  drawing  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett 

Our  Mother 40 

From  a  drawing  by  Edmund  H.   Garrett 

Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud 45 

From  a  drawing  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett 

Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books 49 

From  a  drawing  by  Howard  Pyle 

A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust 52 

From  a  drawing  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett 


I  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod    .      .      .      .      .     57 

From  a  drawing  by  Edmund  H.   Garrett 

Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky  ....     61 

From  a  photograph  by  H.  TV.   Gleason 

Born  the  wild  northern  hills  among       .      .      *      .     65 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  the  White  Mountains 


A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill   . 

From  a  photograph  by  Samuel  L.  Bush 

Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise  . 

From  a  drawing  by  Edmund  H.   Garrett 

Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 

From  a  photograph  of  Chartres 

They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams  . 

From  a  draiving  by  Edmund  H.   Garrett 

Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter-weighed 

From  a  photograph  by  H.   W.   Gleason 

The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round     . 

From  a  drawing  by  Edmund  H.    Garrett 


The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 

From  a  photograph  by  H.   W.  Gleason 


.  69 

.  73 

.  77 

.  81 

.  85 

.  89 
93 


"As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in  the  dark, 
so  Good  Spirits,  which  be  Angels  of  Light,  are  aug 
mented  not  only  by  the  Divine  light  of  the  Sun,  but  also 
by  our  common  Wood  Fire:  and  as  the  Celestial  Fire 
drives  away  dark  spirits,  so  also  this  our  Fire  of  Wood 
doth  the  same."  —  COR.  AGRIPPA.  Occult  Philosophy, 
Book  I.  ch.  v. 

' i  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. ' ' 

EMERSON.    Tlie  Snow  Storm. 


SNOW  BOUND 

Idyl 


THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 
And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 
A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 
Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 
Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 
A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 
It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 
A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 
Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out, 
A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 


17 


That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 
Of  life  blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 
The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 
The  wind  blew  east;  we  heard  the  roar 
Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 
And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing 

there 
Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

MEANWHILE  we  did  our  nightly 
chores,  — 

Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors, 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the 
cows  : 


18 


Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his 

corn ; 

And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows  ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge 

sent,  h^ 

T   TNWARMED  by  any  sunset  light 
^^J     The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 
A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 
And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 


19 


As  zigzag,  wavering  to  and  fro, 
Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged 

snow : 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 
The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 
And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line 

posts 
Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

SO  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on : 
The  morning  broke  without  a  sun ; 
In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 
Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 
In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 
All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 


20 


We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown 


And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 
We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 
On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 
Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 
The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 
No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 
A  universe  of  sky  and  snow ! 
The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 
Took  marvellous  shapes  ;   strange  domes 

and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 
Or  garden- wall,  or  belt  of  wood ; 
A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile 

showed, 
A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road ; 


22 


The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 

In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 

Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

x 

A  PROMPT,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted  :  "  Boys,  a  path !  " 
Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy?) 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew; 
With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low, 
To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 
We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 


23 


And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal :  we  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 
To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers. 
We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 
And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about ; 
The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led ; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked ; 


The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out 


The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep, 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

ALL  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 
The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before ; 
Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 
The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist 

shone. 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 
To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 
Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung 

oak. 
A  solitude  made  more  intense 


26 


By  dreary  voiced  elements, 
The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 
The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 
And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 
Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 
Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 
No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 
Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 
Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 
We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 
The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 
The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 
Had  been  to  us  companionship, 
And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 
To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 


27 


AS  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the 
crest 

Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering 

bank, 

We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back, — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick; 
The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush;   then,  hovering 

near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 


28 


The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 


Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the 
gleam 

On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging 
beam, 

Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 

Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom ; 

While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 

Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 

And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac- 
tree 

Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing 
free. 

The  crane  and  pendent  trammels 
showed, 

The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed ; 


w\ 


30 


While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 
Whispered  the  old  rhyme:  "Under  the 

tree, 

When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 
There  the  witches  are  making  tea." 

THE  moon  above  the  eastern 
wood 

Shone  at  its  full ;  the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and 

keen, 

Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp 
ravine 


31 


Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 
For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  ijt  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 


SHUT  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat, the  clean- winged  hearth  about, 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat ; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 


32 


We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about 


Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney 

laughed ; 

The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's 

wood. 


WHAT  matter  how  the  night 
behaved  ? 

What  matter  how  the  north-wind  raved  ? 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy 

glow. 
O  Time  and  Change! — with  hair  as 

gray 

As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day, 
How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much 

gone 

Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on ! 
Ah,  brother!  only  I  and  thou 
Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now, — 
The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 


35 


That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 

Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 

The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still ; 

Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth 
o'er, 

Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more. 

We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have 

worn, 

We  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees, 
We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of 
bees, 

And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn ; 

We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read, 
Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er, 

But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 


36 


We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 


No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 
No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor ! 

Yet  Love  will  dream,  and  Faith  will 
trust, 

(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is 

just,)  I 

That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  / 
must. 

Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 

The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress- 
trees  ! 

Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 

Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 

Across  the  mournful  marbles  play! 

Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 


38 


The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  un 
known, 

That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 
And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own ! 


WE  sped  the  time  with  stories 
old, 

Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told, 
Or  stammered  from  our  school-book 

lore 

"The  Chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore/ 
How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 
Was  clay  in  Slavery's  shaping  hand, 
As  if  a  far-blown  trumpet  stirred 
The  languorous  sin-sick  air,  I  heard : 


39 


Our  Mother 


"  Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry, 

Claim  the  first  right  which  Nature  gave, 
From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly, 

Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave!" 
Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 
On  Memphremagog's  wooded  side; 
Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp; 
Lived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 
Beneath  St.  Francois'  hemlock-trees; 
Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone 
On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone; 
Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 
Which  led  the  village  dance  away, 
And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 


4-1 


The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl. 
Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes 
spread 

Mile- wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee; 
Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and 

strong, 

Swept,  scythe  on  scythe,  their  swaths 
along 

The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 
We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 

And  round  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals 

The  hake-broil  on  the  drift-wood  coals ; 
The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made, 
Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot, 


With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from  the  pot. 
We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old, 
And  dream  and  sigh  and  marvel  told 
To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay 
Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 
Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 
When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 
The  square  sail  of  the  gundelow 
And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars. 

OUR  mother  while  she  turned  her 
wheel 

Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking-heel, 
Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 
At  midnight  on  Cocheco  town, 


And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bore 
His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 
Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 
So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free, 
(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways,) 
The  story  of  her  early  days,  — 
She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home ; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us  room ; 
We  stole  with  her  a  frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  conjuring-book, 
The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country-side ; 
We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 


Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud 


The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away ; 
We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow 

grew, 

What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nuts 

down, 

Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay 
The  ducks'  black  squadron  anchored  lay, 
And  heard  the  wild-geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 

THEN,  haply,  with  a  look  more 
grave, 
And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she  gave 


From  painful  SeweFs  ancient  tome, 
Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home, 
Of  faith  fire-winged  by  martyrdom, 
Or  Chalkley's  Journal,  old  and  quaint, 
Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea-saint !  — 
Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  pre 
vailed, 

And  water-butt  and  bread-cask  failed, 
And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 
His  portly  presence  mad  for  food, 
With  dark  hints  muttered  under  breath 
Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death, 
Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  supplies, 
To  be  himself  the  sacrifice. 
Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save 


The  good  man  from  his  living  grave, 
A  ripple  on  the  water  grew, 
A  school  of  porpoise  flashed  in  view. 
"Take,  eat,"  he  said,  "and  be  content; 
These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 
By  Him  who  gave  the  tangled  ram 
To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham." 
.*•    . •;>.>*•  ,">r       !  *"\~»  v  <       • 

OUR  uncle,  innocent  of  books, 
Was  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks, 
The  ancient  teachers  never  dumb 
Of  Nature's  unhoused  lyceum. 
In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise, 
He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 
And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine, 


48 


Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books 


By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 

Holding  the  cunning- warded  keys 

To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries ; 

Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 

That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 

Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old, 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes  who  interpreted 

What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said ; 

A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 

Content  to  live  where  life  began ; 

Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds, 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 

Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 


50 


Whereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 
The  common  features  magnified, 
As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 
In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view, — 
He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 
And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 
The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done, 
The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun ; 
Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 
Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 
The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 
From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew, 
The  partridge  drummed  i'  the  wood,  the 

mink 
Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 


51 


A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust 


In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 
The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gray, 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell ; 
The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade, 
And  tier  by  tier  his  mud-walls  laid ; 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his 
shell. 


NEXT,  the  dear  aunt,  whose  smile 
of  cheer 

And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear, — 
The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  denied  a  household  mate, 
Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less 


Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness, 
And  welcome  wheresoe'er  she  went, 
A  calm  and  gracious  element, 
Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet  in 
come 

And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home, — 
Called  up  her  girlhood  memories, 
The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 
The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails, 
Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 
And  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 
A  golden  woof-thread  of  romance. 
For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 
And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood ; 
Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 


JLJ 


The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way; 
The  morning-dew,  that  dries  so  soon 
With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon ; 
Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and 

care, 

From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair, 
All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 
The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart. 
Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 
Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

THERE,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 
Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside ; 
A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust, 
Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 


55 


Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act, 
And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact, 
Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 
The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 
O  heart  sore-tried !  thou  hast  the  best 
That  heaven  itself  could  give  thee, — 

rest, 

Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things ! 
How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 
With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent 
Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings ! 


A 


S  one  who  held  herself  a  part 

Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 
Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 


56 


I  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod 


Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 

Now  bathed  in  the  unfading  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
Oh,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill, 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago :  — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain ; 
And  now,  when  summer  south-winds 
blow 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 


58 


I  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 
I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod 
Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 
The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 
Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 
The  birds  are  glad;  the  brier-rose  fills 
The  air  with  sweetness ;  all  the  hills 
Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky; 
But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 
For  something  gone  which  should  be 

nigh, 

A  loss  in  all  familiar  things, 
In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that 

sings. 


59 


/ /And  yet,  dear  heart !  remembering 

thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I 

hold? 
What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and 

gold 

Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me  ? 
And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 
Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows 

grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 


60 


Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky 


Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are ; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

he  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ? 


BRISK  wielder  of  the  birch  and  rule, 
The  master  of  the  district  school 
Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place, 
Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 
Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce  ap 
peared 

The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 
He  teased  the  mitten-blinded  cat, 
Played  cross-pins  on  my  uncle's  hat, 


62 


Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 
In  classic  Dartmouth's  college  halls. 
Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among, 
From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 
By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant, 
Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 
He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay 
His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way; 
Could  doff  at  ease  his  scholar's  gown 
To  peddle  wares  from  town  to  town ; 
Or  through  the  long  vacation's  reach 
In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach, 
Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 
At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round, 
The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight, 


63 


The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty 

night, 

The  rustic  party,  with  its  rough 
Accompaniment  of  blind-man's-buff, 
And  whirling  plate,  and  forfeits  paid, 
His  winter  task  a  pastime  made. 
Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 
He  tuned  his  merry  violin, 
Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 
Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding-yarn, 
Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told 
Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 
Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and 

Rome 
Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 


noDTTKiK,  Uto1,  liv  Detroit  Photoeraohic  Co. 


Born  the  wild  northern  hills  among 


And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 
'Twixt  Yankee  peddlers  and  old  gods ; 
Where  Pindus-born  Arachthus  took 
The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 
And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 
Became  a  huckleberry  hill. 

A  CARELESS  boy  that  night  he 
seemed ; 

But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed, 
And  hostage  from  the  future  took 
In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 
Large-brained,  clear-eyed,  of  such  as 
he 


66 


Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 
Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail, 
Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail ; 
All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit  strike, 
Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike ; 
Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance, 
The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth, 
Which  nurtured  Treason's  monstrous 

growth, 

Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell 
Of  prison  torture  possible ; 
The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute, 
Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 
For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will, 


67 


For  blind  routine,  wise-handed  skill ; 
A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 
Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence 
The  quick  wires  of  intelligence ; 
Till  North  and  South  together  brought 
Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought, 
In  peace  a  common  flag  salute, 
And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free 
And  unresentful  rivalry, 

Harvest  the  fields  wherein  they  fought. 

f 

ANOTHER  guest  that  winter 
night 

Flashed  back  from  lustrous  eyes  the  light. 
Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not  young, 


68 


A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill 


The  honeyed  music  of  her  tongue 
And  words  of  meekness  scarcely  told 
A  nature  passionate  and  bold, 
Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning  guide, 
Its  milder  features  dwarfed  beside 
Her  unbent  will's  majestic  pride. 
She  sat  among  us,  at  the  best, 
A  not  unfeared,  half-welcome  guest, 
Rebuking  with  her  cultured  phrase 
Our  homeliness  of  words  and  ways. 
A  certain  pard-like,  treacherous  grace 
Swayed  the  lithe  limbs  and  dropped 

the  lash, 
Lent  the  white  teeth  their  dazzling 

flash; 


70 


And  under  low  brows,  black  with  night, 
Rayed  out  at  times  a  dangerous  light ; 
The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her  face 
Presaging  ill  to  him  whom  Fate 
Condemned  to  share  her  love  or  hate. 
A  woman  tropical,  intense 
In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and  sense, 
She  blended  in  a  like  degree 
The  vixen  and  the  devotee, 
Revealing  with  each  freak  or  feint 
The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 
The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint. 
Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 
Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist ; 
The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes 


71 


Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise. 
Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 
Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout; 
And  the  sweet  voice  had  notes  more 

high 
And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry. 

SINCE  then  what  old  cathedral 
town 

Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and  gown, 
What  convent-gate  has  held  its  lock 
Against  the  challenge  of  her  knock ! 
Through  Smyrna's  plague-hushed  thor 
oughfares, 
Up  sea-set  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 


72 


Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise 


Gray  olive  slopes  of  hills  that  hem 
Thy  tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusalem, 
Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 
The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon 
With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own, 
Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their  way ; 
And  still,  unrestful,  bowed,  and  gray, 
She  watches  under  Eastern  skies, 

With  hope  each  day  renewed  and  fresh, 
The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the  flesh, 
Whereof  she  dreams  and  prophesies ! 

WHERE'ER  her  troubled  path 
may  be 
The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her  go! 


74 


The  outward  wayward  life  we  see, 
The  hidden  springs  we  may  not 

know. 

Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 
What  threads  the  fatal  sisters 

spun, 
Through  what  ancestral  years  has 

run 

The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born, 
What  forged  her  cruel  chain  of 

moods, 
What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes, 

And  held  the  love  within  her  mute, 
What  mingled  madness  in  the  bloo  !, 
A  life-long  discord  and  annoy, 


75 


Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy, 
And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 

Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit. 
It  is  not  ours  to  separate 

The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate, 
To  show  what  metes  and  bounds  should 

stand 

Upon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 
And  between  choice  and  Providence 
Divide  the  circle  of  events ; 
But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just, 
Merciful  and  compassionate, 
And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is, 
That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust ! 


76 


Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 


AT  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling 
low, 

Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow, 
The  bull's-eye  watch  that  hung  in 

view, 

Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through, 
Pointed  with  mutely  warning  sign 
Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine. 
That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke : 
My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 
Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse 

gray, 

And  laid  it  tenderly  away ; 
Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover 
The  dull  red  brands  with  ashes  over. 


78 


And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 
The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 
One  moment,  seeking  to  express 
Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness 
For  food  and  shelter,  warmth  and 

health, 
And  love's  contentment  more  than 

wealth, 

With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak 
Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment 

seek, 
But  such  as  warm  the  generous 

heart, 
O'er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its 

part) 


79 


That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night, 
For  bread  and  clothing,  warmth  and 
-       light.  .    .    .:     ;. 


WITHIN  our  beds  awhile  we 
heard 
The  wind  that  round  the  gables 

roared 

With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 
Which  made  our  very  bedsteads 

rock. 
We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards 

tost, 
The  board-nails  snapping  in  the 

frost  ; 


80 


They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams 


And  on  us,  through  the  unplastered 

wall, 

Felt  the  light  sifted  snow-flakes  fall. 
But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 
When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is 

new; 
Faint  and  more  faint  the  murmurs 

grew, 

Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams 
They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 
Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 
And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 


N 


EXT  morn  we  wakened  with  the 
shout 


82 


Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear ; 
And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 
To  break  the  drifted  highways  out. 
Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow 
We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen  go, 
Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  up- 
tost, 
Their  straining  nostrils  white  with 

frost. 

Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 
Drew  up,  an  added  team  to  gain. 
The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a- 

cold, 

Passed,  with  the  cider-mug,  their 
jokes 


83 


From  lip  to  lip ;  the  younger  folks 

Down  the  loose  snow-banks,  wrestling, 
rolled, 

Then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 
O'er  windy  hill,  through  clogged 

ravine, 

And  woodland  paths  that  wound  be 
tween 

Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter- 
weighed. 

From  every  barn  a  team  afoot, 

At  every  house  a  new  recruit, 

Where,  drawn  by  Nature's  subtlest 
law, 

Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw 


84 


;  :V*M 


Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter-weighed 


Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls 
And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 
Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence 
Against  the  snow-ball's  compliments, 
And  reading  in  each  missive  tost 
The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 


WE  heard  once  more  the  sleigh-bells' 
sound  ; 
And,  following  where  the  teamsters 

led, 

The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 
Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say, 
In  the  brief  autocratic  way 
Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty's  call, 


86 


Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 
That  some  poor  neighbor  sick 

abed 
At  night  our  mother's  aid  would 

need. 
For,  one  in  generous  thought  and 

deed, 
What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's 

sight 

The  Quaker  matron's  inward  light, 
The  Doctor's  mail  of  Calvin's  creed  ? 
All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect 

Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 
The  Christian  pearl  of  charity  ! 


87 


SO  days  went  on:    a  week  had 
passed 
Since  the  great  world  was  heard  from 

last. 

The  Almanac  we  studied  o'er, 
Read  and  re-read  our  little  store 
Of  books  and  pamphlets,  scarce  a 

score ; 

One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 
From  younger  eyes,  a  book  forbid, 
And  poetry,  (or  good  or  bad, 
A  single  book  was  all  we  had,) 
Where  Ellwood's  meek,  drab-skirted 

Muse, 
A  stranger  to  the  heathen  Nine, 


88 


The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round 


Sang,  with  a  somewhat  nasal  whine, 
The  wars  of  David  and  the  Jews. 
At  last  the  floundering  carrier  bore 
The  village  paper  to  our  door. 
Lo  !  broadening  outward  as  we  read, 
To  warmer  zones  the  horizon  spread ; 
In  panoramic  length  unrolled 
We  saw  the  marvels  that  it  told. 
Before  us  passed  the  painted  Creeks, 
And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 
In  Costa  Rica's  everglades. 
And  up  Taygetos  winding  slow 
Rode  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks, 
A  Turk's  head  at  each  saddle-bow ! 
Welcome  to  us  its  week-old  news, 


90 


Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse, 
Its  monthly  gauge  of  snow  and 

rain, 

Its  record,  mingling  in  a  breath 
The  wedding  bell  and  dirge  of 

death ; 

Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale, 
The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail ; 
Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 
Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost, 
And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gain. 
We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street, 
The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us  beat; 
The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 
Was  melted  in  the  genial  glow ; 


91 


Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked  door, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  once  more  ! 


CLASP,  Angel  of  the  backward  look 
And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 

And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book ; 
The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  spectral  past; 
Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 
The  characters  of  joy  and  woe ; 
The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 
Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears, 

Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death, 
And  haunts*  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 


92 


The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 


Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 
With  the  white  amaranths  under 
neath. 
Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 

The  restless  sands'  incessant  fall, 
Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed, 
Each  clamorous  with  its  own  sharp 

need, 

And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 
Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids ; 
I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids 
The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 
For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears : 
Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day ! 


YET,  haply,  in  some  lull  of 
life, 
Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks 

its  strife, 
The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngful  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew ; 
And  dear  and  early  friends  —  the  few 
Who  yet  remain  —  shall  pause  to  view 
These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days  ; 
Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth, 
And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory 

forth 

To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's 
blaze  ! 


95 


And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond ; 
The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not 

whence, 

And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 


— 


PS- 


1 


GENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY 


BOOOSbbbS? 


